


Maddening

by Flightless_Bird



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, But they figure it out, Drug Use, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pet Names, Pining, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Sherlock is a sassy little shit, Soulmark AU, Soulmates, What else is new, he is sad, sherlock’s experiments gone wrong, theyre both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightless_Bird/pseuds/Flightless_Bird
Summary: “Oh. Well, no, I don't think I—” Watson straightened up with sudden realization, then turned an outraged frown on Holmes. “Holmes, are you suggesting that the murdered man we are investigating is my soulmate?”“I'm not suggesting anything, I'm asking you,” Holmes sniffed. He flicked a glance in Watson’s direction. “Is he?”“No!”





	Maddening

**Author's Note:**

> I worked on this for quite some time after seeing these lovely films, and I hope it turned out all right! If you liked it, let me know what you thought, and thank you for reading! :3

It had taken a while for Watson to come to the conclusion, but now he was sure: Sherlock Holmes hated his soulmate. And it was not for any discernible reason because, as far as Watson could see, Holmes had never once met his soulmate. So, it seemed the stubbornly moody detective hated his soulmate simply for existing. Watson suspected it to have something to do with Holmes’ utter obsession with his work and lack of affection for damn near anything that wasn't flammable or able to be injected into himself. Whatever it was, Holmes was having none of it.

He never once spoke of who his soulmate might be, he outwardly grimaced and groaned anytime Watson even _mentioned_ the notion of them, and he outright told anyone else his exact feelings on the matter. Which mostly consisted of, _I do hope they don't mind your frequent visits to the bar,_ or _if only your horrendous aftershave doesn't send them away vomiting,_ or, at his most sour, that, _sir, is a rather large beauty mark, not a soulmark, so in short, you shall die alone._

Needless to say, Watson had had to fend off a number of fights.

He only wished he could understand what it was that caused Holmes such hatred toward the whole matter. It wasn't as though he was a complete stranger to the idea of having a soulmate. His and Watson’s grey marks—the ones indicating platonic soulmates—were a matching set, both representative of Mary Morston: a single line written in her looping handwriting upon their arms, stating wryly _you're both idiots_. It hadn't taken long for her to utter that phrase while roped into a case, and her own platonic marks were no doubt for them. A pipe on one wrist and a cane on the other.

So one could see that Holmes was entirely capable of having a soulmate of some sort and tolerating them, to a certain extent. He and Mary bickered in the same fond way that he and Watson did, and when needed, Holmes would risk his own safety for her. So why on earth would he not feel _some_ ounce of fondness for his romantic soulmate, whoever they may be?

Watson found himself thinking again of this while the two investigated a rather ghastly crime scene. Blood-soaked floor and a mangled body—hardly the place to be thinking of romantic intentions. But it was in these instances that Holmes was at his best, and well, _that_ left some rather romantic intentions stirring in Watson.

He looked to Holmes’ gaze over the body, as a less-than-helpful Lestrade droned on from the side. Uncaringly rumpled in his coat and crooked hat, Holmes tipped his head to meet Watson’s eyes over his sunglasses. The utter smug amusement in his brown eyes, the curve of his mouth, made Watson fight against a blush. He shifted his feet and cursed at himself for such things.

Holmes would never be interested and besides, they were both men. The vague marking of a syringe tattooed into his bicep offered no help, as he was _doctor_ , for God's sake. Watson had no clue who his own soulmate was, but anyway,it was foolish to think it was Holmes. No matter how much he guiltily wished it so.

Glancing back up, he found Holmes rounding the body with complete disregard for the still-talking Lestrade. The inspector fumbled a bit. “—as we were sure there would be prints at a scene such as this, but it appeared—ah. Holmes? Holmes. …he's ignoring me.”

“Not ignoring, Inspector, just not responding,” Holmes corrected over his shoulder.

“That's what ignoring means.”

“Ah, my apologies. You _would_ know, as it was your team of officers that so thoroughly ignored all aspects of the crime scene.”

Lestrade cleared his throat with a rather loud cough and tugged at the brim of his hat. Something along the lines of _hellish detective_ was muttered, which joined the list of things to be ignored.

Watson waited patiently until Holmes had wandered to his side. Leaning toward him, he spoke in quiet tones, “you do realize he is helping us, right?”

“No,” Holmes answered brightly, “I hadn't noticed much, actually.”

“Of course,” Watson sighed.

Holmes squinted across the room at the far wall and turned himself more toward Watson so as to avoid the ears of policemen. “I trust you see the lack of blood on the walls,” he muttered.

“Yes, I have noticed that,” Watson replied just as lowly. He raised a brow. “So…body dragged from somewhere else?”

“No smearing on the floor, so not dragged.” Tugging his glasses slightly down the bridge of his nose, Holmes peered over them.

“Why would someone go through the trouble of carrying and placing a body?”

“That, Watson, is the question I was hoping you would provide more insight to.”

Watson gave him an exasperated glare, but Holmes was still staring dutifully at that wall. “I thought _you_ were the detective,” Watson pointed out, reaching out to push Holmes’ glasses back into place with a poke.

Pouting, Holmes sniffed and shoved the glasses back down again. “And I was under the impression that you were a man of medical knowledge and would be inclined to use it.”

“Medical knowledge of what? Carrying bodies?”

“Were you not a war doctor?”

“It is a miracle I don't add you to any of our crime scene victims.”

The upward turn of his lips was all the more Holmes showed to the topic. He plucked the sunglasses from his nose and used them to point to the victim’s twisted ankle. “Notice his soulmark?”

Watson’s head lifted in surprise. “I hadn't,” he managed, following Holmes’ gaze to the red-speckled marking on the poor man’s skin. It was writing, a simple sentence stating, _thank you, doctor._ Puzzled, Watson cocked his head. “What importance could you possibly find in that? His doctor is the one who murdered him?”

“No, of course not,” Holmes answered. “I was wondering if perhaps you’d recognized him. A patient of yours?”

“Oh. Well, no, I don't think I—” Watson straightened up with sudden realization, then turned an outraged frown on Holmes. “Holmes, are you suggesting that the _murdered man_ we are investigating is my soulmate?”

“I'm not _suggesting_ anything, I'm asking you,” Holmes sniffed. He flicked a glance in Watson’s direction. “Is he?”

“No!”

“How would you know? You haven't touched it.”

“And I don't intend to.”

“We shall potentially lose a valuable lead then.”

“Holmes, I am not touching the mark of a dead man.”

“Fine then, let me see yours,” Holmes decided, facing him with sly expectance.

Watson gaped at him. “ _Why_?”

Lestrade piped up from beside a few officers next to the body. “Everything all right, you two?”

“Perfectly fine as always, Inspector!” Holmes replied with a broad grin, and oh, how Watson longed to kick him in the shins. Holmes gave him a scolding look. “My dear Watson,” he began innocently, “if you refuse to touch the man’s ankle, or let me check your own mark, then how are we to—?”

“ _He is not my soulmate_ ,” Watson hissed, tamping down any pleased reactions he'd usually exhibit at _my dear Watson._

Holmes swayed back away from him, as though to avoid being hit, eyebrows raised at his behavior. “Fine then. No need to be so childish about it.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Watson blew out a hard breath. The things he was willing to tolerate… “I'm not the one being childish,” he pointed out.

“You're withholding information much like a child would,” Holmes returned, sticking the hand that wasn't twirling his sunglasses into his coat pocket. 

“You are whining.”

“ _You_ are whining.”

“Oh, for the love of—” He would never let up, it seemed. Shaking his head, Watson turned a dry smile on his friend, whose only response was to bite the end of his glasses and look up from under his lashes like he didn't realize what he was doing. Watson’s defenses softened against his will. Oh, how he loved this madman. “You are insufferable, Sherlock Holmes,” he informed, matter-of-factly.

The intended effect occurred—at the use of his name, Holmes stiffened, flustered. Without pause, Watson stole the glasses from his fingers with one sure swipe of the hand. He was already beginning to walk away as he placed them on his own nose, tossing Holmes a triumphant smile. “Carry on with your work, then,” he chirped, leaving behind a grouchy detective turning rather pink in the face.

 

XXX

 

Holmes was known for his rather eccentric and dangerous choices of hobbies, but none of them could have prepared Watson for this:

Walking in on his companion later that day, with a syringe on the floor beside him, shirt half-undone, and a _branding iron_ in his hands, aimed _at his own chest_.

To say that Watson was alarmed would be a ghastly understatement.

Holmes started the moment the door to 221B swung open, fumbling to keep hold of the white-hot iron and blinking wide eyes at Watson. “Watson! By God, don’t you ever knock?”

Watson choked, scrambling to shut the door, rush to Holmes, and set his cane down all at the same time. “Shit—! What're you— _Knock_?!” he spluttered, cane dropping to the floor with an angry clatter. “If you haven't noticed in the past years, Holmes, I live here just as much as you do—”

“And yet you still have not learned to knock.’

“—and whether or not I knock at the door should be the _least of your worries right now.”_ Whipping his hat off, Watson raked a hand over his hair and then strode toward Holmes. “Honestly, of all the things I've walked in on you doing…”

To his surprise, an emotion akin to panic flashed in Holmes’ dark eyes. He let go of the iron with one hand to grab hurriedly at his open shirt, making to cover himself. It was then that Watson caught sight of the black scrawl across Holmes’ chest, unintelligible as Holmes scrambled to hide it. In his struggle, he lost grip of the iron and Watson’s heart catapulted up into his throat.

“Holmes!” he warned, rushing forward.

The end of the searing metal glanced off of Holmes’ collarbone, eliciting a barely bitten-back curse of pain. Forgetting his state of undress for the moment, Holmes grabbed the iron with both hands and tossed the wretched thing back into the fireplace. Watson had made it to him then,crouching in front of him with a shielding grip on his shoulder.

“This,” Holmes sighed, wincing, “is why I so often try to perform my experiments while you are out.”

“What sort of experiment warrants you attempting to brand yourself?!” Watson demanded. “What've you…” He paused, taking in the state of his friend for the first time. Holmes had never appeared particularly put-together but today, he was all sorts of unkempt; his hair fell in messy curls across his forehead, glistening with as much sweat as the rest of him, shirt askew, one suspender dangling off a shoulder… The purplish circles weighing down his eyes only added to the sorry sight of him. Watson swallowed. “What've you done to yourself?” he asked softly.

“I had found myself in need of a dosage of your painkillers, Doctor,” Holmes answered with all of his usual dryness. Then he looked away with a regretful sniff. “I have neglected to use the proper amount though, as I most assuredly felt every bit of that.”

“Painkiller?” Watson glanced around, eyes widening as he spotted the empty syringe abandoned on the floor beside them. “You stole from me to hole up in here and _brand_ yourself?”

“Ah, you are catching on now.”

“Why on earth would you do such a thing? Is it because of this?” Unthinking, Watson reached out and tugged at the collar of Holmes’ shirt.

In one second, Holmes had a steely grip on Watson’s wrist, jaw set in dread. “Don't,” he bit out. The emotion thrumming in his voice was so unlike him, Watson had to blink several times.

“There’s no need for that,” he tried to assure. “It looks like a tattoo, of all things, and I'm not one to judge. Besides you need to have that burn looked at…” He trailed off, having looked properly at Holmes’ odd marking for the first time.

It wasn't a tattoo. It rested beneath the burn turning ugly red at Holmes’ collarbone, lines of slanting writing over his heart. Watson knew it at once. There was a seamless black to soulmarks that no tattoo ink could replicate, no matter how steady the hand. He’d seen the writing of Mary’s marks, heard of others, but never had he seen such as that that spread across Holmes’ chest. It was unmistakably his own handwriting and streamed on as his own thoughts did.

“Military,” Watson read off the first short line, and Holmes closed his eyes.

_Military. Most likely Afghanistan. Doctor. Possible psychosomatic limp, indicative of post traumatic stress disorder and old injury. Further damage sustained to shoulder in combat, offers no trouble other than occasional soreness. Smart with a trigger, smarter with a syringe. Does not mind the violin, but will most likely come to abhor it. Beautiful. As a completely useless side note._

It was glaringly obvious who the deduction pertained to. Watson’s mind raced over the implications of this, of Holmes never telling him, of the syringe painted on his arm. Suddenly, the room was all too small. He realized that he hadn’t spoken a word for too long when Holmes gave an awkward cough into his fist. “So, now you see,” he said, with poorly-constructed nonchalance. “The world has found it amusing, once again, to give me the worst of things.”

Watson blinked. “The _worst_ of things? What do you—?”

“I'm yours.” Holmes said it so simply, and with such a desperate ache that it touched a nerve somewhere deep in Watson’s chest. Then Holmes smiled a wretched slash of a smile. “But you're not mine. And that is perfectly all right. I've had some time now to accept this fact.”

His own mark seared against Watson’s skin beneath his shirtsleeve. “No, Holmes, you don't understand.”

“I do. Trust me. I understand every miserable aspect of this, because I have had months to come to terms with it.”

“Holmes.”

“No, I don't need your _pity_ ,Watson—”

“Sherlock!” Watson snapped, and Holmes’ mouth clamped shut, eyes wide. “Look!” Tugging at his sleeve, Watson rolled the fabric hastily up his arm. It took some effort, since the soulmark was so damn high near his shoulder, but he managed with only a warning strain from his shirt. He curved his inner arm toward Holmes, pointing to the syringe inked across his skin.

It took a moment for Holmes to come up with any words. He stared at Watson’s soulmark for so long, Watson was half-afraid he'd made some sort of mistake.

Holmes took a breath and adjusted his lopsided shirt. “Well. That…doesn't exactly prove anything.”

“Then prove it,” Watson challenged, foolish and longing. “Go on.”

Holmes’ eyes met his, glistening with dejected hopelessness, and Watson glimpsed the years of suffering yawning behind his gaze. It broke his heart. “Fine then, if you won't, then I will.” He reached forward before Holmes could move and pressed his fingertips to his soulmark.

The rush of tingling warmth took his breath away.

He had heard of the soaring feeling one experienced when touching the mark of their fated, better than any adrenaline high or drug. He had even had a taste of it when he had touched Mary’s platonic mark once. But this was Holmes, this was _Sherlock_. This was every secret hope within him brimming up to the surface in a rush beneath his fingers. It was electric, enough to leave him shaking.

Sherlock’s heartbeat skittered beneath his touch, and when he looked up, he saw the way his eyes had misted over. They were fixed on Watson’s hand resting against his chest. Tentative, he took Watson’s wrist in his hand and slid his fingers up his forearm. Watson watched in silence as Sherlock’s touch came to a stop just beneath his soulmark. “What does it feel like?” Sherlock asked in a whisper.

“Like you,” Watson answered, and he nudged Sherlock’s hand over his mark.

He knew the moment those sparks lit up in Sherlock because the next thing he knew, there was an arm flung around his neck and Sherlock’s mouth was on his.

Touching Sherlock Holmes’ soulmark was one thing. Kissing Sherlock Holmes was another entirely. Sherlock kissed with every lost moment he'd ever felt, clinging to Watson as though he was terrified he would disappear. Watson sank into it, welcomed the fingers clenched in the back of his shirt, the clumsy scrape of teeth over his lip. Somehow, he'd wound a hand into Sherlock’s hair and the other was sliding up from his mark to his neck. He felt the forgotten burn before Sherlock hissed against his lips and jerked back. “I'm sorry,” he managed breathlessly, their foreheads still pressed together. “Perhaps we should see to that before we—”

“I have waited far too long for you, John Watson,” Sherlock cut him off, voice husky and kiss-weakened. “I won't stand another second.”

Watson laughed, brushing their noses together. “You're ridiculous,” he murmured.

“Oh come now.” _There_ was that sarcastic drawl, the glimmer in those brown eyes that Watson loved. Sherlock kissed him again, short this time, but maddening all the same. “You love me anyway, don't you, my dear?” he asked softly.

The lack of his usual Watson at the end of the endearment somehow made it that much sweeter, a secret between them.

Watson cupped Sherlock’s jaw and ran a thumb across his cheek. “Yes,” he said without hesitation, and Sherlock’s smile widened. “I always have.”


End file.
